


Merry Men Got Nothing On Us

by polytropic



Category: Robin Hood - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, not remotely historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polytropic/pseuds/polytropic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia chooses halfway through Sherwood Forest to make a scene because the woods provide the best avenue of escape.</p>
<p>(Robin Hood AU that I wrote in about 45min, so, uh, take that as a warning I guess)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Men Got Nothing On Us

**Author's Note:**

> It's not my fault, delladilly on Tumblr said "No one seems to be writing lesbian Robin Hood" and then this just happened. 
> 
> Warnings: mentions of intended drugging for nefarious purposes, oblique references to planned sexual assault and forced marriage.

Lydia chooses halfway through Sherwood Forest to make a scene because the woods provide the best avenue of escape. She is not inconspicuous, and has never rued that fact until just now, when her bright dress and brighter hair will make her a target among the dark trees. She isn't sure if His highness would rather her dead than escaped, but if there is a time to bet on it, it is now.

She raps on the window of the coach, and when a guard brings his horse alongside, informs him coldly,

"I am having my women's curse. I need to go to the stream and set my affairs in order."

He turns a fascinating blotchy red colour. Lydia knows he joked of far cruder things last night around the campfire, but somehow framed in her delicate lips, her body's natural functions are obscene. Ridiculous.

The coach grinds to a halt and her helps her out, averting his eyes. Lydia glances up the line; the prince has halted as well, and is looking back at her. His eyes are intent. She shivers, and then does something very foolish: she runs.

Later she will curse herself for it, for letting her terror take control of her legs, but it does and she does and she flees. There is a shout behind her; she gathers up her skirt in one hand and runs faster. It's a doomed effort, obviously: her legs are shorter than those of the average human, much less a horse. But she leads them on a decent chace, winding through trees and squeezing through small spaces, taking full advantage of her size. She is cornered at last at the top of a hill, and she thinks, panting and gasping, hair in disarray, that it probably looks a quite dramatic scene. The fox-maiden run to ground by the hounds. 

The Prince rides slowly up to her. The horse's sides heave; his do not. Had she a firebrand she would feel no remorse about plunging it into his eyes, just to stop the way he uses his gaze like the worst kind of weapon. 

"Got it out of your system?" he inquires solicitously. She is still too out of breath to retort, so she spits at his feet. He tsks. "Unworthy of your breeding, Lady Martin."

She regains her capacity for speech in a burst of righteous fury. "Better that than unworthy of my crown."

A guard makes to draw on her; the prince gestures him back. "My dear you are overwrought. Clearly your delicate mind has taken temporary leave of itself, to forget the penalty for treason."

"Oh, I know it well. I whisper it to sing myself to sleep: those who harm the royal family will find only death as their reward. They may think that they are safe; they may think they are untouchable. They may think the blood on their hands is invisible to the naked eye. But somewhere in heaven, Queen Laura is watching. Somewhere far away, Prince Derek still lives. And some day very soon, the pentalty for treason will come calling. I will enjoy watching, when that day comes."

She feels so amazingly powerful in this moment. Her voice is quiet, smooth like a prayer, and it feels like the trees themselves have leaned closer to hear. Lydia may very well die before her next breath; she is deeply, fircely glad of what she spent her last words to say. 

Peter, pretender to the crown of England, sighs like a disappointed nursemaid. "Whoever filled your head with this poison will be brough to justice. For you, my love, clearly my apothecary will have his work cut out soothing your troubled mind."

She knows her face must betray her horror because of the gleam that enters his eyes. Desperately, she tries to think of anything she could do to force the guards to cut her down, here and now. She has heard the stories of Peter's apothecary, how his potions and the visions they induce drive people insane and leave them wrung out puppets for the prince to manipulate. 

Lazily, Peter gestures the guards forward to apprehend her. Lydia closes her eyes and despairs. 

The is a hum, and then a cry. She opens her eyes again to see the guard nearest to her staring down in shock at where an arrow pierces his leg, halfway down from the knee. He stumbles, and another arrow pins him to the ground by his shirt. Then the air is full of the hum of bolts, and the only thing Lydia can think of to do is crouch down, put her hands over her head protectively, and watch with wide eyes as the royal guard fall in droves. 

There is a curse, recognizable as the prince's only from its direction, because she has never before heard him sound thwarted. His horse starts towards her; there is the zip of another arrow, and a grunt of pain. she risks looking up, only to see Peter staring at the bleeding scratch on his arm with murder in his eyes. Their gazes meet, hers stunned and his furious, and then he wheels his horse and rides for the road, the guards behind him firing blindly to cover his retreat. 

His retreat. The prince _ran away_. 

The barrage of arrows has stopped. The silence left behind is almost eerie; Lydia rises to her feet slowly, a sole standing figure among the groaning guards all around. There is a thump behind her, boots digging into the ground. She turns, and regards the hooded figure with what she hopes is not as much astonishment as she feels. 

"Brigand," she greets her corteously.

"Maid Martin," Robin Hood replies, with a bow too elaborate to be anything but mocking. "A pleasure, as always."

"Your little war games in the woods are slightly more advanced than you made them out, last we spoke."

"Your troubles with the crown are likewise."

"Apparently not any more." 

She means it as a thank you; when the dark hood is pushed back to reveal equally dark hair, and eyes that seem to freeze and heat her blood all at once, she knows it was taken as offered. 

"Perhaps, this time, you might like to stay a while," Allison offers. Lydia does not understand how, after everything, her smile is still so open. 

"I think I might," she agrees, and lets her take her hand. 


End file.
